


Happy Hour

by marnbug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marnbug/pseuds/marnbug
Summary: Fenris glared at him with an intensity that made Anders think he might punch him.Instead, he pinned him to the alley wall and kissed him. Furiously.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Happy Hour

The Hanged Man was thunderously loud that night. Music rang out across the tavern, melting together with the sounds of laughter and drunken conversation. Hawke was at the bar, hung across Isabela’s shoulders while the pirate toyed with the fur draped over the Champion’s back; Varric was playing cards with Aveline and Merrill, and cheating as a matter of course. Every time they lost a hand, Merrill sighed in frustration, and Aveline slammed her tankard on the table, informing Varric that she would “arrest him for obstruction of victory”.

Anders was seated at the bar in the corner, nursing a too-strong ale. He had always been a lightweight, his lanky frame and weak constitution offering very little in the way of alcohol cushioning. Every time his ale reached room temperature, he would quietly flick his wrist and cool it again with magic. Stupid, really, to risk the Gallows for a cold ale, but he did stupid things when drunk. For example, he had bet Fenris that the elf couldn’t finish a bottle of wine in under a minute, and had been forced to watch in dismay as the smaller man downed it in fifty-eight seconds. He had immediately thrown up, pocketed his winnings, and wandered off afterwards, Maker knew where.

His ale was warm again, so Anders performed his trick. The usual sensation of ice coating his fingertips made him shiver slightly despite his intoxication, as the chill passed through the fade, through his hand and into the flagon it clasped around. His drink was perfectly cooled in seconds. A satisfied half-smile crossed his lips as he lifted the ale and felt the cold liquid hit his throat.

At that moment, Fenris appeared from among the throng of tavern patrons, plopping down on the stool next to him, wobbling - and scowling.

“Seriously? Magic?” He hissed with menace, but his attempt at intimidation was interrupted by a hiccup. “Do you have a death wish?”

Anders grimaced.

“Not particularly, though you certainly wouldn’t complain in the event.”

Fenris ignored him, hailing the barkeep for a fresh tankard and chucking a few coins on the counter. Either the man had misheard him over the din or Fenris had overpaid. In any case, he delivered two ales, sliding one towards Anders before either of them could react.

A shit-eating grin plastered itself across the elf’s face. “Wanna see me drink from both at once? I’ve done it before.” He reached for the additional drink, but Anders drew it back towards him.

“I do believe this is mine.”

Fenris blinked at him. “I paid for it.”

“And I’m sincerely grateful.” Anders grabbed both his old and new ales in each hand, and poured them into his mouth. He felt his mind going progressively foggier, but the slighted look on Fenris’s face was worth it. He threw the cups behind him, then laughed about something. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” repeated Fenris.

“Okay. I really need to piss.” Anders stood, but six feet was a long way up to suddenly find himself after having been seated for so long. He began to topple; Fenris caught him.

“If you go anywhere alone in this state we’ll be dragging you out of a gutter tomorrow morning.”

Anders clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I live in the sewers, Fenris. I’m accustomed to sleeping in gutters.” The elf was stronger and stockier than him despite being a head shorter, and held him up like a frail leaf. “I need to piiiiss,” he whined.

“Alright, we’re going.” The two of them hobbled towards the entrance together, Isabela absent-mindedly slapping Fenris’s ass as they walked passed, causing Hawke to snort into their cup with laughter. The bard started an unusually upbeat rendition of _I Am The One_ as they left the building, the melody still dimly audible from the alleyway outside the Hanged Man.

Fenris propped Anders against the wall then leaned against it himself several paces away, looking up at the dark sky while the other conducted his business. It was midsummer, and the warm Kirkwall nights were both a blessing and a curse depending on whether one was trying to sleep fitfully.

Humming at first, Fenris started singing quietly along to the bard’s song.

“I am the one, who can recount what was lost,” he slurred.

Anders finished up, patted his clothes down and turned back to the other man, frowning. “It’s “recount what _we’ve_ lost”, not _was_.”

Fenris glared at him with an intensity that made Anders think he might punch him.

Instead, he pinned him to the alley wall and kissed him. Furiously.

Anders made a high-pitched sound of surprise, but found himself kissing the other man back on pure instinct. His mouth tasted of wine and liquor, but Anders supposed his own flavour probably wasn’t much better. The kiss was sloppy and clumsy, but Fenris was attacking it with such force that it was also mildly painful. Anders grunted as their teeth clashed, pulling away. “Could you be gentler with me? I’m not a gourmet steak.”

The elf sneered at him. “Sorry, I forgot you were such a delicate flower.”

Anders bristled. “Says the shorty-”

The shorty took his words away with another kiss, just as messy, but slightly less angry. Anders sighed into it. Then paused against Fenris’s lips.

Wait.

What were they doing?

He was drunk, but he wasn’t sure he was drunk enough for _this_. Whatever _this_ was.

His internal spiralling evaporated once he felt the warm palm of another’s hand pressing against his hip, squeezing, then sliding lower, across, until it . . . _oh_.

Anders jerked his head back against the wall, biting his lip as Fenris began to rub. It was with all the grace and technique of a walrus, but a hand was a hand, and it had been a while.

An abrupt shout came from nearby.

“Oi! You two! Maker, why is it always an elf.”

Two guards were running up to them, and they didn’t look pleased. Maybe making out in the street in the middle of Lowtown wasn’t their brightest, soberest idea. Fenris cursed under his breath and quickly retracted his hand, taking a step away from Anders.

“What? My friend here just, uh, needed resuscitation. See how far gone he is? He passed out standing up!” Fenris was entirely unconvincing. Even through his own stupor Anders could see that he was swaying in place as much as he was.

“Uh-huh. Right. Well, either resuscitate him back in the tavern with the other drunks, or in a jail cell. The choice is yours. We won’t tolerate public fondling.”

“We weren’t-”

“Tavern. Jail cell. Pick one.”

Fenris deflated, his metaphorical tail slipping between his legs. He grabbed Anders firmly by the wrist, dragging him back into the Hanged Man while the guards watched after them. Mercifully, the tents in both of their respective trousers had been shocked limp by the disturbance.

The tavern was exactly how they had left it - boisterous laughter all around, the Fereldan bard having since moved onto _Andraste’s Mabari_. No one spared them a glance as they shuffled through the doorway. Anders looked over at the rest of their usual party: still gambling and yelling, as expected. He looked back at Fenris.

The other man was staring at him hotly.

Anders gulped.

“Let’s try upstairs,” Fenris said, as if no further elaboration was required.

“I’m sorry?” Anders wasn’t sobering up, exactly, but he was beginning to become slightly nervous that Fenris would blame him for all of this tomorrow.

“Stop being obtuse. Come on.” Anders’s wrist was grabbed again, and Fenris pulled him along, weaving through the rowdy tables towards the stairs in the back of the main room. If Hawke, Isabela, or anyone else spotted them, they didn’t make it known.

Once they were in the hallway of the next floor, Fenris started peeping around for vacated rooms. The Hanged Man was popular for drinking and merriment, but it was rarely used for lodgings (unless you were Varric, a pirate, or otherwise extremely shady). As soon as an empty bedroom was discovered, Fenris yanked Anders in by his feathered collar and immediately continued where they had left off: back against the wall, lips pressed desperately together, Fenris’s hand between Anders’s legs.

Now that they were indoors and the noise from downstairs loud enough to drown out any individual voice, Anders let himself groan, bucking his hips towards the warmth rubbing against him. Suddenly, he really didn’t care what Fenris thought in the morning.

“Would you stop teasing and actually touch me?” he complained, the friction between the fabric and his skin starting to become faintly uncomfortable. Directing his attention to the swell in Fenris’s trousers, he began to untie the fastenings there. The other man’s ministrations paused with anticipation, as Anders’s hand finally slipped below the hem and his fingers wrapped around him. This elicited a delicious sound from Fenris’s slightly parted lips, a quiet gasp that served to be disproportionately gratifying. He attempted to shakily untie Anders’s obstructive clothing, as the fingers around his cock began to pump slowly, firmly, drawing him out.

By the time Fenris finally got his own hand on Anders’s length, he was shuddering and moaning into the taller man’s neck. Anders was enjoying seeing him unravel far more than he had expected. He hated the guy. But, damn.

Fenris’s hand began to move in time with Anders’s own, and all thoughts or musings vanished, replaced only with pleasure and a mounting fog compounding with his already hazy, alcohol-soaked mind. Both of them were sweating, which only added to the sensation when Anders gripped his and Fenris’s cocks and pressed them against each other, his hips thrusting unprompted with every pump of his fist. Fenris cried out, and Anders moaned and gasped with him.

“Shit, fuck, fuck fuck, I’m going to -” Fenris croaked out an unintelligible mess of swears in Tevene as he came, semen dripping down Anders’s hand as he finished himself off, coming moments later. The two of them slid down the tavern wall, panting and shivering, Fenris leaning against Anders for support.

They stayed like that for a while longer, recovering.

Anders slipped a small, worn piece of fabric from his pocket and wiped his hand off. Usually, he would wash the cloth to reuse, but he thought he might just throw it away this time. Or perhaps burn it. It would depend on how mortified he felt once he regained sobriety.

Eventually, Fenris peeled himself away, standing on weakened legs. He tucked himself back in, then looked down at Anders with an unreadable expression.

“We will never speak of this again,” he said.

Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Anders was absolutely on board with that plan.

**Author's Note:**

> hi i was thinking about the party rockers/“it’s party rock IS” meme and this happened


End file.
